


Make it Mean Something

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Series: 2Fords [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Amnesiac Stan Pines, Dark!Ford, M/M, Manipulation, Memory Loss, Time Travel, ford is just weird and creepy, stan doesn't remember jack shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-05 20:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17331419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Ford makes Stan forget; he hopes to help him remember. But, Stan is just a stranger with a Jersey drawl.





	1. Learn from the First

“Already a death certificate an’ everything,” Stan says, voice low and rough as he passes the canteen back to Ford. The rim of the canteen is wet, and so are Stan’s lips as he licks them. “You'll get everything back.” Stan wipes his mouth on the sleeve of Ford's trench coat; it fits him poorly, even with the girdle squeezing his gut into an unnatural shape. Ford is spared responding by drinking as well. “Don't say I never did nothing for ya,” Stan’s smile is strained without the familiar wrinkles around his eyes, with the tension translated to his brows instead. 

Stanley Pines will only exist like this a few minutes more, Ford rationalizes as he brings a gloveless hand to settle against Stan’s cheek, hesitating only when Stan flinches away but he cups Stan’s face regardless. He tries to memorize the rough scrape of the unshaven, post-apocalyptic stubble; he stretches a thumb to smooth across Stanley’s eyebrow.

“What?” Stan asks. “You wear your eyebrows special or somethin’?” Stan crosses his arms with a grumble. “Not like you look so hot, either.” Stan’s posture gets more defensive and tense when Ford drops the canteen to trap Stan’s face between his palms. Ford can smell the days of sweat and fear and the hot exhale of Stan’s breath is pungent with Ford's alien vodka. Ford wants to taste his brother before it is too late.

Stan looks bewildered, nervous, and then finally he realizes. “Ford--!” Stan’s words are muffled violently as Ford gracelessly smashes his lips into Stan’s, and Ford is certain he may have bruised his mouth on Stan’s dentures. The idea makes one of his hands fist into Stan’s hair to hold him in place as he bites, harder than he intends to as he swallows Stan’s cry; it tastes like iron. Stan grunts when he shoves Ford away, wipes furiously at his mouth and leaves a rusty smear on Ford's coat sleeve.

“Jesus,” Stan doesn't shout, just holds trembling fingers to his lips to assess the damage, though the thickness of the gloves offers no tactile input. The wound is hardly consequential, it will scab in a minute and fade in a few days, but Ford takes some comfort that the bite will linger. He takes comfort that at least Stan’s body will remember Ford when Stan’s mind is obliviated. “Now?” Stan whispers, face blooming red. “Fuck!” 

“I--" Ford doesn't know what to say; he cannot articulate the quagmire of thoughts and feelings that seem to leak into his stomach as nauseating vitriol. 

“You!” Stan stops as if he's choked. The hand probing Stan’s mouth curls into a fist. “Forty fuckin’ years and you--" 

“Quiet!” Ford rushes to the edge of their strange prison to grasp the bars. The heavy footfalls and childish shouts announce the return of Bill Cipher.

“The kids!” Stan rushes to join him. Ford can’t see Stan’s hands but they must be white knuckled, judging by the muted creaking of the six-fingered gloves.

“Stan, you have to--!”

“This is GETing  **REALLY OLD** .” Bill’s form has grown large with rage. His golden bricks are burned black and pulsing; red radiation fills each crack between them. A furious red eye swivels to pin Stan and Ford and Ford is terrified that their ruse won't work, and the twins, small and precious, that are writhing within Bill's enormous, black hands will be crushed like the insects they must seem to the ageless dream demon. 

“Bill!” Ford hears something like himself shout beside him. There is a moment of vertigo as he tries to rationalize the creature next to him that looks like him and sounds like him before he recalls where and when he is. “Stop; don’t!”

“I'm getting  **_TIRED_ ** ,” Bill's several mouths loll open and each seems like the grin of a wolf. “Of eating mutton when LAMB IS  _ ON THE  _ **_MENU_ ** .” Bill’s hands squeeze and the twins, both of them so young, open their mouths to scream but bleat instead. “ _ IF ONLY _ ,” Bill shouts over the bahing and bleating of the twins. “SOMETHING MORE **_INTERESTING_ ** ,” the shrill noise grows louder and more ragged as the children gasp and Ford has never considered what it would sound like if lambs could sob as they were lead to the slaughter, but now he knows.

“Now!” He grabs Stan’s shoulder and shakes him violently. “Now, now!” Stan shakes Ford off. He transforms and slips into Stanford's deep, smooth voice.

“Bill!” Stan shouts. He's barely audible over the shrieking of the children but Bill's hands seem to slacken enough that the twins go shockingly quiet; they are still gasping and bleating but they no longer need to scream. 

“ **Stanford** !” Bill mocks, swings his large bulk to stare at the older, grayer twins. 

“Let them go!” Stan leans forward to snarl at Bill. “You've won! I'll do it, just let them go.” 

“Well!” Dipper and Mabel fall with human screams to the hard surface of the Fearamid as Bill drops them like unwanted toys. “That wasn't so hard was it?” Bill shrinks and fades from a nightmare to a bright shard of gold, his red sclera clearing away as his eyelid turns up in a grin. 

“Sta--Stop!” Ford catches himself before he shouts his brother's name; he remembers the script. “You can’t!” Ford grabs Stan again by the shoulder and he is again shoved away.

“I have to!” Stan snaps. 

“Oh ho!” Bill laughs and it sounds like tessellated pixels. “Well, well. Well, well, well!” There is suddenly a thin, black hand grasping Stan’s face, thumb swiping over the tacky scab forming there. “Stanley Pines,” Bill shrieks in delight. Both Stan and Ford freeze; terror pours from them both as Bill giggles and his large eye swings to look at Ford. “Finally made a move, huh? And a  _ BITER _ .” 

Ford is slammed back and down by the mouth, something like a mask has covered the lower half of Ford's face, muffling his surprised shout.

“Hey!” Stan tries to wrench out of Bill's grasp and reach down to Ford.

“Relax, Fordsy.” Ford’s neck snaps as he's pulled into the air by the mask. Ford is thrown into Stan, their faces connecting painfully as Bill holds them together. 

“Bill, stop!” Stan maintains the ruse, turns his face from where it has been forced into Ford's. 

“SMOOCH!” Bill brings them apart and back together again with a SMACK that leaves both Stan and Ford groaning. “Don’t be SHY.” Bill forces them together; it forces Stan’s dentures to scrape against the mask.

“Grunkle Stan!”

“Grunkle Ford!”

Bill's form shudders and the phosphorus red leaks back into his eyes as the children shout hoarsely.

“ **CHILDREN** ,” he shouts. 

“Bill, stop. I'll do it!” Stan’s voice cracks as he tries again. Bill hesitates and slowly brightens. 

“You're right,” he says. “Let's get this PARTY  **_STARTED_ ** .” Ford is flung aside and he falls like a dead fish. Bill drops Stan, but Stan has the chance to keep his footing. “Come on, Stanford!” Bill holds out a little black hand that erupts with fire. “Let's make a world for  **FREAKS** like  **_YOU_ ** _ AND _ **_ME_ ** .” Ford can barely feel relief that Bill is still fooled, not with the mounting, primitive terror of watching his brother bare himself to the devil. 

Stan silently grasps Bill's hand and kneels.

 

Ford would like to say that the wiping Stan’s mind is the hardest things he has ever had to do, but he built an interdimensional portal, and he has survived the multiverse. Very little is difficult for him now, and it is cognizantly unsettling that he can look his brother in the eyes and through the glass of Ford's own spectacles as Stan steals himself for his fate, yet Ford is calm.

Still, when his brother is kneeling at his feet Ford must look away. He cannot erase a Stanley Pines that is incapable of fighting back; a Stanley Pines that has already begun to dissolve like cotton candy under the deluge of Bill Cipher’s mental invasion. At this point, as Stanley Pines’ head falls back and his mouth hangs open, there is a battle that has been coiled and injected like viral material into this old, fragile man, and it is a battle that Stan cannot hope to win. 

When Ford pulls the trigger, there is no longer a Stanley Pines to erase. That is what Ford tells himself.

  
  


Stan doesn't remember. The children try all they can but Stan remains a pleasant, old stranger with rough manners and a Jersey drawl. 

He's pleasant with the children. He's indulgent with Mabel and with Dipper he is awkward but well meaning. The large man like a gopher is harder; Soos, the man is called, is devastated and it wears on the old man who doesn't recognize his surrogate son. 

With Ford the old man is different. Uncertain. He recognizes the similarities in Ford's face and he is aware that the two of them must be related, but he doesn't have the memory. It clearly upsets him, but there is more. 

Stan licks his broken lip whenever he sees Ford. He doesn't seem aware that he is doing it. Sometimes, Ford will lick his own lips in response, startling Stan into blushing or frowning and rubbing furiously at his lips until they are nearly swollen. 

“You'll break it open again,” Ford says. The old man pauses, wrist against his mouth, and scoffs.

“S’fine,” he says but lowers his hand regardless. This Stan is more pliant then Ford's brother, which is both satisfying and disappointing. 

“Let me see.” Ford crowds too close to Stan; he is slow but deliberate as he circles the old man's wrist and pulls it away. Stan tenses and resists.

“S’fine,” he says again. Ford considers forcing the issue, but he hears the frantic patter of small feet. 

“Grunkle Ford! Grunkle For--oh!” Dipper freezes as he rounds the corner of the hall, small, soft face bright red as he catches his breath. He looks between Ford and Stan and begins to chew his lip nervously. “Um.” Stan lowers his arms sharply, breaking Ford's grip. 

“Hey, kid, ya need somethin’?” Stan asks, full attention on Dipper.

“Uh.”

“Yes, what do you need?” Ford clasps his hands behind his back. Dipper clears his throat.

“Never-uh. Actually,” Dipper clears his throat again. “Grunkle Ford, can I talk to you?” 

“Of course!” Ford smiles. 

“Ah, alone?” Dipper shoots Stan a shy look and scuffs at the ground with his foot.

“Alright, alright,” Stan scoffs. “Let you nerds do yer nerd things.” He rumbles. Dipper waits until Stan’s heavy steps fade away.

“What is it, my boy?” Dipper chews his lip again.

“Well, uh, Mabel and I. We were,” he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pen. “We were thinking that maybe,” he begins to click the pen in pulses. Click-click. Click-click. “Well, Grunkle Stan, he isn't. He isn't coming back.”

“Dipper,” Ford sighs, places a heavy hand on his grand-nephew’s shoulder. “We knew this would happen.”

“Yeah, but, just listen!” Dipper looks determined, fragile brows drawing down. “We were thinking that maybe he needs to start somewhere else! Maybe, if you had some baby photos, or--” Dipper clicks the pen erratically until Ford's hand covers his.

“Stop.” Dipper stops. “You have to accept that he's gone, Dipper.”

“But, what if he isn't!” Dipper says, voice straining with emotion. “He's still Grunkle Stan! He still the same gross, weird old man. He just…” Dipper looks around as if the words and ideas he needs are in the air or nestled between the floorboards. “He just needs to remember,” he finishes. Ford tightens his grip in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. Dipper winces.

“He’s doing better than I thought.” Ford admits. “But, even if I had those albums,” Ford says. “I don’t think it would work.” The small body under his hand deflates and sags before looking miserably up at him.

“You're sure?” Dipper asks desperately. Ford nods.

“Yes. I'm sorry. Stanley is gone.”

 

Ford is alone in his room come nightfall. The couch is stiff under his ass as he carefully pens today's observations: Stan’s progress or lack thereof, Dipper’s suggestion. 

Ford isn't optimistic but he is by no means a defeatist. He has already considered Dipper’s proposal; he is proud of the boy for thinking of it. It is only that Dipper is two steps behind Ford.

Ford turns back a few pages to look over his calculations once more, not so much checking them as assuring himself. He has a plan; he has direction.

He needs to sort through Stan’s money for the bills printed after ‘65. They won't do him any good where (when) he’s going.

“Yes?” Ford doesn't look up from his notes at the knock; he knows who it is. There is only one member of the household who has the shuffling lumber of a groggy multibear while favoring his left side. 

“Uh, hey.” The door creaks slowly open on hinges that were already damaged before the apocalypse warped them further.

“Did you need something?” Ford looks up; he can smell the cheap shampoo Stan favors. “Did you remember something?” It's a foolish question but Fords finds himself asking it again and again. As usual, the old man snorts.

“Nothin’ to remember,” he shrugs. “Well, nothin’ in here.” Stan knocks the knuckles of his right hand against his temple, disrupting the thinning, white hair that sticks to his damp skin. Ford's thoughtful frown deepens. 

“If you say so,” Ford says and they both know he disagrees. 

“Yeesh,” Stan shuffles into the room, pink slippers muffling his footsteps. “Mopey today.”

“I’m not moping,” Ford grumbles. “Do you want something?” He carefully closes the book and sets it to the side. He lets the pen twist between-over-under his fingers in an absent minded display of dexterity. Stan squints at Ford and watches the pen move before finally closing the distances and sitting heavily next to him.

“Oof!” Stan lands with a grunt. “This couch sucks.”

“What are you doing?” Ford asks, leaning away from Stan to get a better look at him. 

“Sittin’, Ford, I’m old,” Stan rubs at his knee even though it’s his back that bothers him most.   
“In my bed?”

“Bed?” Stan scoffs. “No wonder you never sleep.” Ford hums in response, smiling slightly. Stan pats the couch to either side of him as he frowns thoughtfully. 

“What’s wrong?” Ford puts his pen to the side to rest with his book, choosing instead to gently grasp one of Stan’s bare shoulders. They are pink with residual heat and the coarse body hair is coiled tightly against itself with moisture that Ford’s paper-dry fingers seem to absorb. Stan tenses under his touch. Ford digs his thumb into Stan’s trapezius rhythmically. 

“Stanford,” Stan’s rough hand circles Ford’s wrist, firm but not forceful. “Are we brothers?” Ford’s hand freezes before he laughs.

“Well, you aren’t a clone!” Ford’s amused smile falls into a frowns when Stan tugs Ford’s hand away from his shoulder. 

“Right, yeah. Faces an’ all, but.” Stan rubs his neck and looks down, still holding Ford.

“Stan, are you okay?”

“We’re brothers,” Stan says. He picks nervously at his boxers. “I just thought,” Stan’s face twists sideways. “Are you sure?”

“Of course!” Ford grins at the absurd question. “While I don’t remember it, I  _ was _ there for your birth. We’re twins.”

“Then why do ya look at me like that?” Stan asks softly, glancing nervously at Ford.

“What do you mean?”

“Like you,” Stan hesitates. “Like you wanna eat me.”

Ford tenses beside his brother; he feels Stan tense in response.

“Eat you?”

“Yeah, like, ya--ya get this look,” Stan rubs at the back of his neck and looks at the door. Ford’s heart hammers in his chest; he can barely breathe as he waits for Stan to continue. “Nevermind. Lets just,” Stan stands abruptly, upsetting Ford. “I gotta check on my, uh. Laundry.”

“Stan!” Ford grabs his brother roughly by the wrist, yanking him backward. “What were you going to say?” 

“Get off!” Stan wrenches himself free and glares. “Don’t touch me.” Stan mutters and rubs vigorously at his wrist. Ford purses his lips.

“What were you going to say?” 

“You hear that?” Stan asks loudly. “Kids? Yeah, that’s the kids. Sorry, Ford, gotta go.” And Stan scurries away before Ford can respond. Ford narrows his eyes and decides that he needs to escalate his timeline.

 

A week later, Ford corners Stan in his room; he pins his stuttering brother against the wall and snaps the carefully calculated tape measurer open and shut. He is blinded by a flash of white-blue before both he and Stan collapse in a heap in Glass Shards Beach, New Jersey: 1960-something.


	2. Do Better

Ford isn’t sure what it is, he suspects the weirdness of the futuristic time travel may have interacted with Stan’s already addled brain, but Stan is almost catatonic when they land. It’s late at night, so no one is around to question the sudden appearance of two old twins in the middle of the beach. It’s a blessing and a curse that Stan rests quietly in the sand, blinking slowly at the night sky. When Ford calls his name and shakes him, Stan slowly looks at him, but says nothing. Ford gently coaxes him to stand and guides him to the boarded off cave that had been a favorite haunt for the two of them as young children. 

“Roomy,” Stan finally says when Ford makes him sit on a relatively dry rock.

“How do you feel?” Ford pulls out a flashlight and checks Stan’s eyes. They dilate unevenly as Stan bats at his hand.

“Tired,” Stan says. Ford nods and looks around. 

The cave is as he remembered it being: dark, damp, and secret. It wouldn’t do long term, but it’s an acceptable shelter for Stan and him until Ford can find something better. 

“Stay here,” Ford says; he stares at Stan until his brother nods.

“Okay.”

 

Ford came through time with a duffle bag that he had dropped in favor of supporting his brother, but he goes to retrieve it once he’s sure Stan won’t go anywhere. It’s an innocuous enough bag at first glance, dirty and scuffed, but it is deceptively large (mostly due to the space altering technology he had woven into his own, miniscule pocket dimension.) Inside, Ford has everything he needs: his journals, a meager wad of cash, several weapons of various advancements, medical supplies, nutrient pills. As he makes his way way back to Stan, he takes out the money and counts it out: $562.00. It’s enough for a few month’s rent, though Ford hopes he won’t need it all.

Stan is hasn’t moved from the rock when Ford returns. 

“Stan?” He calls. The old man on the rock doesn’t answer; he barely responds, save to blink sluggishly at his lap and slowly turn his head to Ford.

“Hey,” Stan squints at Ford. It must be impossible to see in the near-dark of the cave. “Are you lost?” Ford’s heart skips over itself in his chest and sinks.

“No,” he says after a moment as he takes a breath to remain objective.  “Why do you ask?”

“Are you camping?” Stan watches Ford put the bag down and pocket the bills of money still in his hand. Ford chuckles quietly.

“Not for long, hopefully,” he says. 

“Yeah?” Stan licks his lips, glances from Ford’s pocket to Ford. “A drifter? Just passin’ through?”

“How do you feel?” Ford asks instead of answering. “Do you have a headache? Any dizziness?”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Stan presses, hand fisting against his knees when Ford pulls out a slender cylinder of glass that he ignites to illuminate the cave. “Gah!” Stan’s flinches from the light, hands raising to cover his eyes. “Who are you?” 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Ford clips the light to his jacket.

“Eh,” Stan shrugs. He lifts his glasses and rubs at one watering eye and then the other. “That’s a good question.” Stan rights his glasses on his face and looks at Ford. “What about you, Mr. Mystery?”

“Don’t call me that,” Ford says, a little too harshly if Stan’s defensive flinch is telling.

“Yeesh, sorry,” Stan looks around the cave again. “Just curious.” Ford takes a deep breath and exhales loudly through his nose. It was too much to hope that Stan would magically remember Ford in this almost sacred space of childhood memory. (Ford can only blame himself that Stan seems to have lost any progress, as he doesn’t even seem to recognize Ford as a stranger, let alone a brother.)

“Can you walk?” He asks, stepping closer to Stan to offer a hand. Stan leans away from him before his eyes settle on the hand Ford has barely begun to raise.

“Woah,” Stan’s hand flutter into the air, as if he intends to grabs Ford’s hand, but hover uncertainty. “They real?” Ford frowns down at his hand, at the extra pinky instinctively curling toward his palm. 

“Yes,” Ford says stiffly. “Can you walk?” Stan braces his hands on his knees and stands with a loud grunt.

“Ugh, barely.” Stan rubs at his back with a grimace.

“Good,” Ford looks his aged brother up and down and feels his defensiveness soften. “I'm not sure how far it is, but, I seem to remember a motel being close by. If you're able, we can find it and try to get a room.”

“So, not camping,” Stan nods to himself. Stan takes a step forward and stumbles, swearing loudly. 

“Stan!” Ford hurries to catch him. Stan flinches under Ford's hands and bats them away.

“I'm fine! Just, damn back,” Stan scowls at Ford when Ford refuses to let him go. 

“Perhaps, you should stay here,” Ford says hesitantly. “There's no guarantee that the motel would be open, anyway.”

“Pff,” Stan leans away and Ford finally lets him go. “Yeah, wonderin’ around where-ever-the-hell for a room sounds dumb anyway.” Stan rubs absently at his arms where Ford had grabbed him. 

“Just, don't leave the cave,” Ford warns as anxiety pricks at his nerves. “It's not safe.”

“Yeah?” Stan looks curiously at the cave opening. 

“Yes,” Ford claps a hand down on Stan's shoulder and squeezes. “Don't leave the cave.” Stan is rigid under Ford's hand, but he nods stiffly. 

“Alright,” he says. “Don't leave the cave.” Ford squeezes Stan's shoulder a final time.

“I'll be back soon.”

The motel Ford has in mind had changed little over the decades he and Stan had spent away from Glass Shards Beach, so it's easy to recognize now. It's not terribly large, maybe twenty rooms with five of them being on a second floor while the rest sprawl squatly in a single story. A flickering, neon sign declares: “vacancies.”

Ford finds a place to check in. It requires banging on room one until a man comes to the door cursing loudly about the police. When he sees Ford, he hesitates, looks Ford up and down. 

It's simple to secure a room key with a week’s worth of payment in cash. The man is clearly curious, but he doesn't ask. He just tells Ford the check out time and not to use the phone to call out of state. 

Getting Stan back to the motel is slightly more difficult. Stan doesn’t trust Ford and he’s hesitant to follow Ford back to the motel, but he is smart enough to realise that he can’t stay at the cave. (And Ford hasn’t done him any harm, surely Stan must recognize that.)

“So,” Stan says once Ford has locked them both in the room and checked the bed clothes for parasites. “Is this the part where I take my pants off?”

“What?” Ford freezes, body seizing in surprise that has him dropping his scanner so that it lands with furious beep and flash of light as the mechanisms within it are disrupted. “Why would you?” Ford stares at his brother, face heating as he picks the scanner up to check it for damage. 

“Well,” Stan starts hesitantly. “Motel room? Handsome stranger?” Stan’s voice cracks over the word ‘handsome’ and when Ford feels composed enough he looks at his brother. Stan waggles his eyebrows, but his smirk is too stretched and his eyes are too wide. His hands are balled into the thin bed sheets. Ford imagines, if he looks close enough, that he can see beads of sweat gathering at his brother’s temples, illuminated like tiny spheres of neon from the light filtering through the window.

“You think I’m handsome?” Ford asks. As the surprise fades, Ford feels something like warm curiosity gathering in his chest and gut. He wonders if this is the real Stanley Pines, surfacing honestly and unfettered.

“Sure,” Stan shrugs, he seems to relax a little. “Tall, dark, mysterious? A girl’s dream.” Stan’s voice hesitates again, almost as if he’s stuttering over a script.

“You’re not a girl,” Ford says and watches the way Stan’s eyes snap to the side, almost shyly, before he meets Ford’s eyes again.

“No,” Stan agrees. Ford can’t help but smile at the absurdity of the situation.

“You don’t know who I am?” Ford tries, watches Stan’s face pinch in thought before Stan finally shrugs his large shoulders again and shakes his head.

“Sorry,” Stan doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But, hey, silver lining? You get to be whoever you want.” Ford regards his brother shrewdly. Stan takes that as permission to continue. “So, what’s it gonna be, big guy? Who you wanna be?” Ford hums low in his throat as his brother tries to sell something to Ford and Ford isn’t really sure what it is. He isn’t sure that Stan knows either. 

“Your brother,” Ford answers honestly. Stan’s face does a funny spasm as he tries to remain some kind of suave and puzzled. 

“...Okay,” Stan says at last. “Not my weirdest request.” Ford hums again and decides to take a seat next to his brother on the bed. He feels Stan’s body tense up to move away, but he stays put. 

“And what is?” Ford, on a whim, takes one of Stan’s hands into both of his own. He considers sliding his hand up Stan's arm, to his shoulder and then neck. 

“Uh.”

“You’re weirdest request?” Ford prompts. He continues to hold Stan's hand, innocently. 

“Ya know, it’s escapin’ me, right now,” Stan shakes his head. “Probably somethin’ with feet, though.” Ford laughs.

“How degenerate,” Ford carefully turns Stan’s hand over in his before setting it to the side in Stan’s lap. “If you want to undress, you can,” Ford starts. He can feel a crack of tension through Stan’s body like a flinch. “But, I prefer to keep my boots on.”

“Right,” Stan’s body moves slightly as he nods. 

“Now,” Ford stands and places a hand on Stan’s shoulder. “Get some rest.” Stan pauses, hands hesitating against his hips. 

“Rest?” 

“Yes.”

“Like, sleep?”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Ford repeats. The look Stan gives him is dubious. “We’re going to the beach tomorrow.” It’s almost painful, the way Stan’s face goes from darkly suspicious to brilliantly hopeful. 

“The beach?” Stan’s smile quickly dims. “What for?”

“You like the beach,” Ford shrugs, watching suspicion shutter his brother's face.

“Okay,” Stan says slowly. “My tall, dark, mysterious brother who takes me to the beach.” Ford’s heart does an interesting twinge at that. “Sounds real and not at all fake.”

“Go to sleep,” Ford’s voice comes out rougher than he thinks it should. Stan gives him another look but he slowly lowers himself to lay down on the bed. Ford waits, listens to the rustling of the bed clothes and Stan’s muffled breathing until he quiets and Stan begins to snore. He waits a few moments more before he carefully and slowly slides into the bed, next to his brother, careful to keep his boots from kicking Stan’s sleeping form.

“Boots on, huh?” Stan mumbles sleepily into the small, dark space between them.

“Go to sleep,” Ford says again, cheeks heating at the intimacy and being caught. Stan grumbles, but he wiggles and settles. It’s another few minutes until Ford feels that Stan is more deeply asleep. Only then does Ford let his hand settle on Stan’s waist and trail up to his ribcage to rest there, rising and falling with each of Stan’s deep, noisy breaths. It isn’t long after that that Ford, to his surprise, follows his brother into sleep.

 

Stan doesn’t remember. It hurts Ford, until one afternoon, as he’s herding Stan back to the motel, he sees two young men of the same height and build go running across the beach, one much noisier than the other. He watches the two boys, who he knows are brothers, until one starts to flag and tire.

“God, I wish I were young,” Stan says beside him, eyes pulled into crows feet as he smile wistfully, happily watching the young men play. “Wasted on those hooligans,” he continues. Ford nods absently as he watches a young Stanford Pines drag a young Stanley Pines away from the water.

“Youth is wasted on the young,” Ford says. Even from this distance he can see how much it pains the young Stanley to be forced away from the ocean; but, he can also see the devotion this young man has to his brother. 

“Don’t know how good they got it, that’s for sure.” Stan shakes his head sagely and begins to walk again. Ford looks over to his Stan, old and worn and back to the young man walking headfirst and blind into disaster.

“A shame,” Ford says to himself. But, it doesn’t have to be.


End file.
